


Daughter of the Sun

by aggiepuff



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Rhaegar Won, Alternate Universe Really Applies Here Guys, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dead Rhaegar Targaryen, F/M, Growing Up, I cannot say this enough, I only kinda regret this, Jon Snow is Not Called Aegon, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Loosely modeled after Tamora Pierce, Lyanna Stark Lives, Most Do Not, Oh look The Witcher is here too, Rhae & Ciri are BFFs, Rhae Might be Slightly Color Blind, Rhaenys Centric, She's not, Slow Burn, Some Canon Elements Apply, The North holds a Grudge, The North thinks Lyanna is a Hostage, the longest slow burn I have ever written
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:15:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24013459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aggiepuff/pseuds/aggiepuff
Summary: Rhaenys holds her head high as the Wolves snarl at her heels. They do not believe Lyanna stays in King's Landing of her own free will, but that she is a hostage. Rhae wonders if any of these stubborn Northmen have ever met her Wolf-Mother. Still, for three years she must live among them, a sign of goodwill from her mothers to The North. Thank all the gods, old and new, for Sandor, little Arya, and the kindness of Lord Stark.
Relationships: Elia Martell/Lyanna Stark, Elia Martell/Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen, Robb Stark/Rhaenys Targaryen (Daughter of Elia)
Comments: 37
Kudos: 94





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For those who didn't read all the tags, I cannot emphasize this enough: **ALTERNATE UNIVERSE REALLY APPLIES HERE.** I'm not talking just changing events of cannon or an alternate timeline. I'm changing the entire societal structure. If anyone has read anything by Tamora Pierce, think Tortall. For those of you who haven't read Tamora Pierce, go read Tamora Pierce.
> 
> Thank you and enjoy!

Rhae abandons Tyrion in the wheelhouse on the last day of the journey. Instead, she seeks out Sandor, her massive swornshield. She escapes the watchful eye of her new lady's maid to grab his hand, smiling at him with a slight gap in her two front teeth as the caravan prepares to set off.

Sandor has been at the palace training to be her swornshield for 5 years, ever since she hid behind the tall eleven-year-old when playing dragon seeker with her brothers and other children in the palace. She hadn't even noticed the twisting mass of newly healed scar tissue stretching across half his face until Eggy asked about them. Then she declared that obviously he had fought a wicked fire wraith and won and insisted such a strong, brave boy be given the best training because she wanted only the best to serve her. He'd been with her ever since and now she rides behind the sixteen-year-old on his great black destrier, Stranger, as the small procession travels the King's Road, making for the North and Winterfell.

"Have you ever been North?" She asks him quietly, under the creek of leather and jangle of harnesses.

Sandor doesn't turn but his low voice rumbles, quiet and loud all at once. "No."

"Have you met any of the Starks?"

"No."

Rhae bites her lip. The only Northerner she has ever met is her Wolf-Mother and she is not here to guide Rhae's first journey beyond the city walls of King's Landing. Instead, Lyanna is bedridden again, another attack of pneumonia that leaves the Maesters shaking their heads.  _ A bad omen, _ they say,  _ that both women who bore Rhaegar's children were weakened by the ordeal. _

Rhae isn't sure of that. Her Spear-Mother and Wolf-Mother are the strongest people she knows, quick and clever, raising her and her brothers, guarding Eggy's throne until he comes of age and teaching Jon to be his Hand. True, neither are capable of physical strength, but it was they who taught her physical strength is not paramount in asserting power.

She knows her fostering in the North is part of that weaving of power across the Seven Kingdoms. Lyanna promised, before Rhae left, that her brother, the Warden of the North, Lord Eddard Stark, would look after her. Lyanna never spoke of Lord Stark’s wife or his children but Rhae’s Wolf-Mother promised her brother would care for her as his own. 

Still, butterflies flutter in her stomach as Winterfell’s great stone towers and thick walls grow ever closer. She curls her hands in Sandor’s heavy winter coat, peering over his shoulder.

“Careful, Sunshine,” Sandor says, reaching a hand back to her knee to steady her, “don’t want ye to fall.”

“I won’t fall,” Rhae responds but she settles back again. Stranger’s back is broad and she is not tall, her legs short enough she could easily fall even if she is used to riding pillion with Sandor. 

Behind them, the wheelhouse and wagons trundle along the packed road winding across the rolling hills before Winterfell’s gates. They carry almost everything she owns in heavy trunks, plus many items made just for this: heavy winter cloaks and thick dresses with careful stitching of suns and spears, wolves and dragons. 

The walls of Winterfell tower over her, the gates held wide open and guards lining the courtyard as Sandor guides Stranger across the open space. The castle’s occupants are assembled before the great double doors, waiting, all dressed in thick winter cloaks edged in fur, all staring...at her.

The tallest of them is a man, long faced with long dark hair and pale gray eyes. They’re Jon’s eyes, Rhae realizes and her anxiety eases. This must be Lord Eddard Stark whom her Wolf-Mother calls Ned.  _ Uncle Ned _ , Rhae tries in her head; she likes it. 

The woman behind him is blue eyed and red haired, the same age as her own mothers, but there is a coldness to her face that Rhae doesn’t know, even as the woman holds a babe in her arms. The others are children, three boys and two girls. All pale like the moon, their hair ranging from red-brown to dark brown to dark blond. All with either blue or gray eyes.

Rhae swallows hard. Behind her, the door to the wheelhouse opens. “Lord Stark,” Tyrion greets the Lord of Winterfell.

“My lord,” Eddard Stark answers, stepping forward, meeting the Imp in front of Sandor’s horse, but his gaze strays to Rhae and her heart thuds in her chest. 

Tyrion sees Lord Eddard’s eyes shift away from him and he smiles, turning to look behind him at Rhae. “My lord,” he says, turning back to the assembled Starks, “may I present Her Royal Highness, Princess Rhaenys Martell Targaryen of the Seven Kingdoms.” Tyrion turns back to Rhae, smiling encouragingly. “Your highness, may I present Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, and his Lady, Catelyn Tully.”

Stranger shifts beneath her as Rhae nods. “It is an honor to meet you,” she says carefully.

Only Lord Stark’s face shifts from a cool mask. “Here, your Highness,” he says, stepping forward, “let me help you down.”

Sandor’s muscles tighten beneath her hand but Rhae presses her palm against his back, reassuring, before releasing her hold on him and turning toward Lord Stark. “Thank you, my Lord,” she says, leaning towards him and letting him lift her down.

Once her feet are firmly planted on the ground, Rhae realizes how tall Lord Stark is. He towers over her, so different from her Wolf-Mother, and she cranes her neck back to look into his face. It's a kind face, if a little somber, and she can see Lyanna in him.

Lord Stark steps to the side, motioning towards the watching assembly. "My family, your Highness," he says in a pleasant burr. "My wife, Lady Catelyn" - Lady Catelyn curtseys even with the smiling baby in her arms - "and our youngest, Rickon."

"He's beautiful," Rhae says because it is the polite thing and because it is true; all of the Stark children are beautiful.

"Our eldest son, Robb." The tall boy of twelve or thirteen steps forward, bowing low over her hand. He has the red-brown hair and his mother's river blue eyes but there is no welcome in his expression. Rhae inclines her head at his greeting and tries not to let the fear overwhelm her.

"Our eldest daughter, Sansa," Lord Stark continues and the tall redheaded girl of ten curtseys gracefully. Her face shifts into a smile like sunshine and the rising panic in Rhae’s heart eases at her welcome.

"Arya, our second daughter." The tiny slip of a girl with dark hair and her father's gray eyes watches her with barely concealed suspicion but she curtseys, though not quite as well as her sister.

"Then there is Brandon." The second youngest Stark son is a thin six-year-old with wide, pale eyes and dark hair. He bows to her a little shakily, but that is to be expected of a young boy.

"And our ward, Theon of House Greyjoy."

Rhae blinks in surprise at the twelve-year-old boy standing beside Robb. He is clearly not a Stark with dark blond-brown hair and an underlying gold tone to his pale skin, but she wasn't expecting a Greyjoy. Old fury oozes in her chest and she reminds herself that this boy is innocent, that it is not his fault her Grandmother Rhaella died and Danaerys and Viserys disappeared in his father’s rebellion three years past.

Theon doesn’t smile as he bows and Rhae doesn’t either, but she also doesn’t step away like she wants to. 

“It is an honor to meet you all,” Rhae says. “I am grateful for your warm welcome and hospitality.” Behind her, Sandor dismounts, landing heavily and stepping up to stand on her right. She gestures to him. “Please, allow me to introduce my swornshield, Ser Sandor Clegane.”

Lord Stark nods to him. “We bid you welcome to our home.”

“Well, this is all lovely as mayflowers in June,” Tyrion says before the inevitable awkward silence can settle, “but perhaps I can trouble you for a spot by the fire? It’s rather cold in the North and I am a southern lord.”

“Of course,” Lady Catelyn says, “this way.”

Rhae glances at Sandor. He nods. “I will see to your things, Highness.”

Rhae follows Lady Catelyn through Winterfell’s great double doors, Tyrion at her side. The rest of the Starks follow and Rhae ignores the itching between her shoulder blades. The grate at the end of the long hall of Winterfell holds a crackling fire and she picks up her pace slightly, seeking the warmth as a snake seeks the sun. 

She holds out her hands to the flames and the red light dances across her dark skin. Beside her, Tyrion does the same and she gives him a sheepish smile. The Imp winks at her, green eyes twinkling. “Thank you, Lord Stark,” he says.

“Yes,” Rhae agrees, “my blood is of the desert and I have never been anywhere so cold before.”

Lord Stark huffs a laugh. “We do like keeping warm here.”

“Once you are warm, your Highness, I can show you to your room,” Lady Catelyn says behind her. 

“Go on,” Tyrion encourages quietly. 

Rhae follows Lady Catelyn through the maze of Winterfell’s corridors, trailed by young Sansa.

“What’s it like in the capital?” Sansa asks. 

“Beautiful,” Rhae answers. “The flowers are always in bloom and I have blood-oranges everyday - or I did.”

“Are you really a princess?”

“Yes.”

“Do you wear beautiful dresses and go to wonderful parties and -”

“Sansa,” Lady Catelyn chides gently, “don’t badger her Highness.” She opens a door halfway down the corridor. “Your room, your Highness. I hope you will be happy here.”

Rhae inclines her head. “Thank you, my Lady.”

“We’ll leave you to settle in.”

The door closes behind her with a creak of hinges. Rhae takes a deep breath. A fire crackles cheerfully in the hearth, warming the stone room. A sturdy bed heaped with furs dominates the room, a matching wooden desk and chair set beneath a window covered in expensive glass. Two banners hang on the wall: the first red, the Targaryen three-headed dragon on a black field, and the second, a red sun pierced by a golden spear on orange cloth of House Martell.

Rhae smiles, the knot of anxiety in her stomach finally loosening. The Stark welcome might not have been as warm as she hoped, but they made an effort.


	2. Chapter 2

Rhae wakes at dawn, as is her habit. She dresses quickly in the dim light, pulling on wool socks, sturdy boots, and breeches before tucking in the ends of her shirt under a light coat. Her hair she combs then braids into a long black tail down her back. She had servants find a weapons rack for her room before she went to bed the night before. Her Martell spear is there, alongside her bow, a quiver of arrows, five Dornish daggers, and her Valeryian steel sword, Dark Sister.

She belts Dark Sister to her waist, tucks the bow into the quiver before slinging it onto her back, and picks up the spear, leaving the daggers on the rack. Going over her weapons one last time, she heads for the door.

Sandor waits for her in the corridor.

“Come along, Highness,” he says, leading her through the maze of halls. 

“To the practice yard?” she asks. 

“Aye. We should have it to ourselves this early.”

Rhae smiles. “Good. I’d like to warm up with the spear, if you don’t mind.”

“As her Highness wishes.”

The practice yard is indeed empty and Rhae removes Dark Sister, setting it and her quiver aside before facing Sandor.

The large, scarred man twirls a long wooden staff, watching her. Rhae mirrors the motion with her spear and they circle each other. 

“Remember,” Sandor says, “watch my shoulders. That’ll show ye what I'm plannin’.”

Rhae rolls her eyes. “I know.”

Sandor snorts. “Really?”

He lunges. Rhae moves to block but it’s a feint and she crashes to the mud with a cry when he sweeps her legs out from under her. 

“That hurt,” she informs him as she stands.

“Good. Pain is an excellent teacher.”

Rhae holds her spear diagonally across her chest, standing sideways to present a smaller target. “You’re a sadistic bastard, my friend.”

The butt of her staff strikes, quick as a snake. He blocks. She pivots. 

The spar is a rapidfire exchange of blows, Rhae’s style more of a dance as she moves around the bigger, slower Sandor. Still, he blocks every strike and hits back. Neither use great force and, in the end, neither is the clear victor.

Rhae pulls back, sweat trickling from her forehead, breathing heavy. 

“Ye’re improving,” Sandor says, setting his staff aside.

Rhae beams. “Thank you!”

“That was very fine spearwork, your Highness.”

Rhae turns. 

A stout man, broad, with large white whiskers stands at the edge of the practice yard. Beside him are Robb Stark and Theon Greyjoy, both holding practice weapons.

Her spine straightens. “Thank you, my Lord.”

The man studies her with dark eyes. After a moment he says, “I am no lord, your Highness. I am Ser Rodrik Cassel, master-of-arms of Winterfell. Would you care to join us for some swordplay?”

“I would like that very much, Ser Rodrik.”

Ser Rodrick smiles. “Excellent. Ser Sandor, if you would assist?”

Sandor grunts. It’s his  _ why-the-fuck-not _ grunt so Rhae returns to her collection of weapons, setting her spear aside and unsheathing Dark Sister.

Her sword is slightly thinner and smaller than most longswords, the Valyrian steel shining in the weak morning sun. It has been with House Targaryen since before The Doom, even before the Targaryens retreated to Dragonstone, forged originally for a shieldmaiden of Valyria. Her Grandmother Rhaella presented it to her on her tenth nameday and enlisted the services of a Braavosi water dancer as her teacher.

Rhae swings the sword with a twirl of her wrist, adjusting to the balance of it after the spear. 

Ser Rodrik approaches her, holding out a wooden practice sword. "You have a fine weapon, your Highness, but this is practice. If you would indulge me?"

"Oh," Rhaenys flushes, quickly sheathing Dark Sister and taking the wooden sword. "Of course, Ser Rodrik." 

The practice sword is lighter than Dark Sister, and wider, but just as long. She spins it experimentally, testing the feel of it, idly making passes to adjust. 

On the opposite side of the courtyard, Robb and Theon strap on pseudo-armor of stiffened leather, meant to mimic the heavy plate worn by knights.

Ser Rodrik looks her over as she steps into the center of the yard. "Do you need armor, your Highness? I am sure we can find something that will fit you."

"No, thank you, Ser," Rhae answers politely.

Ser Rodrik frowns. "Are you certain, your Highness? It is no trouble-"

"Her Highness is trained in a style different from most," Sandor breaks in. "It requires she be unencumbered by heavy armor."

"If you're sure," Ser Rodrik says dubiously.

"I am," Rhae reassures him, "and, please, call me Rhaenys, or Rhae, if you prefer."

Ser Rodrik inclines his head. "Very well, Lady Rhaenys. Robb, let's see how the princess is trained."

Robb turns from adjusting his breastplate. “What?”

“You’ll be sparring against Lady Rhaenys.”

“I can’t spar against her!” Robb protests. “Girls don’t know how to fight with swords.”

Rhae scowls. “You’re just scared I’ll beat you,” she snaps. 

“That’s likely,” Robb scoffs with a roll of his eyes.

“I agree. It is likely I’ll beat you in a spar.”

Robb stars for her, teeth bared. “I’ll show you -”

Ser Rodrick steps between them. “Sounds like we’ll have quite the spar. Are you both ready?”

Rhae nods, bringing up her wooden sword. Ser Rodrick looks between her and Robb, lifting up his arm. 

Rhae focuses on the Stark boy. He is shorter than her and a year younger with a mop of curly red-brown hair barely out of his Tully blue eyes. She wonders how long he has had that wooden practice sword. He holds it steady so she suspects at least a year, probably two. Rhae twirls her own wooden practice sword, stopping so the dull blade extends from her arm, her left hand going behind her back as she turns slightly to the side, keeping the end pointed at Rob but presenting a smaller target, as she did with Sandor and her spear.

"Ready?" Ser Rodrik calls from the sidelines.

"Ready," Rhae and Robb answer in unison.

Ser Rodrick brings his arm down. "Begin!"

Robb strikes down and across. Rhae deflects, spinning away. She comes in from the side, harrying Robb. He blocks and pivots, lunging forward. Rhae ducks and comes under his guard, aiming for his shins. Robb steps back.

He's lighter on his feet than she expected and her sword slips uselessly past him as he turns away. She continues her spin, moving outside of his range as she straightens. Her muscles hum pleasantly and she smiles. 

"Don't get fancy," Sandor barks from the sidelines.

Rhae ignores him. Sandor thinks water dancing is a daft way to fight, he much prefers the slash and hack tactics of greatswords.

They circle each other. Robb holds his sword between them, blue eyes intent. Rhae considers her options, then, on impulse, twirls her sword up behind her back, holding it against her spine. Robb has the greater reach, his practice sword being slightly bigger and longer. She needs to get in close before she can strike.

She ducks and weaves, moving in a steady circle. More than once she is forced to block Robb's strikes with her sword - he truly is very fast - until, finally, the flat of her practice sword presses against his thigh, a death blow that would hack off his leg in a real fight. She grins triumphantly - the edge of something sharp and pointed presses against her back. She glances up.

Robb holds his practice sword above her, the tip pointed down and ready to impale her.

"I believe that's a draw," Ser Rodrik calls.

Robb holds her gaze, something dark in his blue eyes, then, slowly he removes his sword from her back.

Rhae stands, knuckles white on her sword to keep her hands steady. For a moment, with his practice sword at her back, she was sure Robb Stark was going to kill her.

She licks her lips, stepping away. "Thank you for the practice, my Lord, but I think I will go prepare for the morning meal now."

Rhae doesn't flee the practice yard but she does bob a quick bow as her breeches require and walk quickly back into the halls of Winterfell, Sandor following close behind. Alone with Sandor, she slumps against a stone wall, breathing heavily.

Sandor waits in silence, watching her.

Tears prick at the corners of her eyes and she swallows hard. "I thought he was going to kill me," she whispers into the silence.

Sandor sighs. "I warned yer mother coming here was a shit idea."

Rhaenys rubs furiously at her eyes. "Why? I don't understand. He looked like he hates me."

Sandor studies her with his deep set gray eyes. Finally, he says, "The North does not believe Lady Lyanna lives in the Red Keep by choice."

Rhae jerks. "What? But she sends letters all the time!"

"Aye, but, well…"

"Tell me, Sandor."

Sandor sighs again. "When yer mother and father first wed Lady Lyanna everyone thought she'd been kidnapped and forced into it. Started this whole rebellion shit and yer family almost lost."

Rhae's mouth twists. "Robert's Rebellion, I know that part. Father fought and died on the Trident, alongside the would-be usurper, and Ser Jaime protected Mother, Eggy, and me - but, I don't remember any of it. I was only a year old then."

"Robert's Rebellion almost destroyed House Targaryen." Sandor's deep voice rumbles through the deserted corridor, sending shivers down her spine. "From what I hear, the Lannisters were marching on King's Landing and only the lion shit's declaration for yer mother after Queen Elia killed the Mad King kept’m from storming the gates. They turned on the Baratheons and the fucking shit show was over."

"But why -"

"Because Lady Lyanna still lives at the Red Keep and The North refuses to accept her choice. They think yer mother is keepin’ her to ensure their good behavior."

"But - but that's absurd!" Rhae sputters. "Have they never met my Wolf-Mother? Surely they know nothing can make her do something against her will?"

Sandor shrugs. "Who fucking knows?" He holds out her spear, bow and arrows, and Dark Sister. "Best go put these away and get dressed for breakfast."

Rhae takes her weapons with a sigh. "Thank you, Sandor, for telling me everything."

"I am a Hound, yer Highness. I shall never lie to ye."


	3. Chapter 3

Breakfast is an uneventful affair. When there are guests in Winterfell, Sansa Stark explains beside her, then everyone eats in the Great Hall, but when it is just the family there’s a private family room where the Starks eat. Rhae wonders if she will be included in that. 

She and Sansa and Arya sit at one of the lower tables alongside Jeyne Poole, the daughter of Winterfell’s Steward, and Beth Cassel, the daughter of Ser Rodrick Cassel. The younger girls chatter about their plans for the day, chewing on sausage and biscuits drizzled in honey. Rhae tries to swallow her own sausage but it lands in her stomach like lead. She wonders, looking about the Hall, how many of these Northerners are imagining her death.

At the high table, Lord Tyrion eats his own breakfast, speaking amiably with Lord and Lady Stark, Robb Stark with them as the heir. Rhae takes a sip of her gillywater, suppressing her urge to run and hide. She is the Dragon of Dorne, the Daughter of the Sun and Fire. These Northern Wolves will not frighten her.

After breakfast, Lady Catelyn sweeps down from the high table and collects Arya, Jeyne, Beth and Sansa. She almost turns away but stops. “Your Highness, if you would care to join us? It is time for lessons with the Septa.”

Rhae stands. “Thank you, my Lady. I would be honored to join you.”

The lessons are very like the ones she had with her own Septa back in King’s Landing. Septa Mordane, however, is very unlike her old Septa. The woman is older, with sharp cheekbones and sharper eyes. Her mouth is thin, almost lipless, but she smiles and praises Sansa’s needwork and Rhae’s penmanship. Her Septa in King’s Landing never did that, though she also never disparaged Rhae’s work which she figures makes up for her strict manner.

Arya has trouble sitting through her lessons, though she does try. Rhae shifts to sit next to her, glancing at the needlework in Arya's lap. The stitches are uneven and the pattern unclear. Arya flushes when she catches Rhae looking. 

Rhae smiles, tilting her own needlework for Arya to see. Sloppy is the only fit descriptor for her work, the stitches even worse than Arya’s and the colors are just off enough to clash. 

Arya giggles. “That looks terrible.”

“I know. I’m much better at mathematics and drawing. What about you? What do you like learning?”

Arya frowns. “I like being outside.” She perks up with a sudden thought. “Is it true Dornish women learn weapons?”

Rhae’s smile grows. “Yes. My mothers saw to it that I learned archery, swordwork, and the spear of House Martell.”

Arya frowns. “Mothers? You have more than one mother?”

Rhae glances around. Sansa, Jeyne, and Beth are giggling over their needlework by the window and Septa Mordane speaks quietly with Lady Catelyn near the hearth. Rhae leans a little closer. “Yes, I have two mothers: my Spear-Mother and my Wolf-Mother.”

“Wolf-Mother? My aunt Lyanna?”

Arya is a clever, clever girl. Rhae’s smile widens. “Yes, your Aunt Lyanna. She married my father and my mother when I was younger than your brother Rickon and she raised me alongside my Spear-Mother as if I were her own. Me and my two brothers: Aegon and Jaehaerys. I call them Eggy and Jon.”

Arya’s gray eyes widen. “You call the king Eggy?”

“Of course. He’s my baby brother. Not even being the king changes that. Don’t you have silly names for your brothers?”

Arya considers. “No. Robb’s and Bran’s names are too short to change...but I could call Rickon ‘Ricky’?” She glances up at Rhae as if asking for reassurance. 

“Call them the names that make sense to you,” Rhae says. “I have nicknames for my brothers and they in turn call me Rhae.”

“Can I call you Rhae?”

Rhae beams. “Of course. If I am to live here then we are to be as sisters.”

Arya’s gray eyes sparkle and she grins.

Septa Mordane looks over Rhae’s shoulder. “Your Highness,” she says carefully, “your embroidery is...”

“Horrible, yes,” Rhae chirps with a grin. “I know. I’ve never gotten the hang of it. I’m better at mending and basic stitching. Are there any socks that need darning?”

Septa Mordane’s lips purse but she goes to the basket by the hearth and pulls out a thick gray wool sock. “Here, your Highness.”

Rhae happily takes the sock, handing over her failed attempt at embroidery. “Thank you, Septa Mordane.”

Septa Mordane nods then glances at Arya’s work. Before she can open her mouth, Rhae leans towards the young Stark, holding out the sock. “What color would you call this, Lady Arya? I’m not very good at colors. Would this be pearl gray or blue-gray?”

Arya glances over Rhae’s shoulder at the Septa before answering. “I think it’s a dark gray.”

“Excellent. Can you help me find some matching thread?”

Arya quickly digs into the basket of thread at their feet, studiously ignoring Septa Mordane’s disapproving expression. After a moment, the Septa moves away and Arya pulls out the right thread. 

It takes Rhae until the noon meal to finish the basket of mending. Where her embroidery is atrocious, she learned her darning and mending from her mothers’ favorite seamstress who is more interested in ensuring her stitches are seamless and hold rather than look pretty.

The noon meal is a light affair, brought in by maids. After, Lady Catelyn takes Rhae on a more extensive tour of Winterfell, showing her the godswood and explaining the day to day chores of the household.

Winterfell is less...polished than the Red Keep, Rhae thinks, watching as guardsmen and servants traipse across the open courtyard, but far larger. In King’s Landing, Rhae had plenty of time to laze about or play. Her favorite place was the library and she could spend hours there uninterrupted. Here in Winterfell everyone had tasks to complete, things necessary to keep the ancient fortress running.

The last place Lady Catelyn takes Rhae is the godswood and Rhae’s breath leaves her at the beauty of it. Ancient trees stand guard, lush and green with the new growth of Spring, the great oaks, the hawthorn and ash and soldier pines, and, at the center, stands the heart tree. 

The red weirwood is a pale giant, frozen in time, ageless and without end. This wood  _ is _ Winterfell, she realizes. It is The North, far more than the wild uninhabited places or the villages and towns. 

The rich scent of wet earth and growing things fill her lungs, the smell of centuries long gone and more to come. Rhae could stay beneath the dense canopy for hours, she thinks, sitting at the base of a tree, reading her books, hidden from the world. 

“Come,” Lady Catelyn says, “it is time to return to your lessons.” 

Rhae presses her lips together with distaste. She is very much like Arya, she realizes. She is tired of being indoors. “If you will excuse me, my Lady, but I was hoping to speak to your horsemaster this afternoon.”

Lady Catelyn’s eyebrow rises. “The horsemaster?”

“Yes. I enjoy horseback riding and Lady Lyanna suggested that I purchase one of your Northern mounts if I am to live here.”

Lady Catelyn’s lips purse at the mention of Rhae’s Wolf-Mother. “I don’t think -”

“Lord Tyrion should have given you a letter from my mother detailing the lessons I am to have. Riding is on that list.”

Lady Catelyn is clearly not pleased at the subtle order but Rhae’s mother is the Queen-Regent and Rhae is the Princess. She cannot deny her for all Rhae has been given into her keeping. Instead, she catches a passing servant and instructs him to take Rhae to the stables.

Master Hullen is neither tall nor short, with dark hair, dark eyes, and a long, pale face. He eyes Rhae skeptically when she asks to see the horses.

“Why does her Highness wish to see the horses?”

“Her majesty has given me coin to buy and stable a horse of my own while I am in Winterfell. She felt you would have an animal better fit to survive in the colder climate than the sandsteeds I rode in King’s Landing.”

Master Hullen grunts. “Very well, your Highness. Follow me.”

The horses of Winterfell are massive gray creatures, heavier than the delicate sandsteeds she knows. The smallest is still several heads taller than her and their coats are shaggy with feathers around their hooves. They look built to charge enemy lines like battering rams. 

“They’re beautiful,” she breathes.

Master Hullen points to the smallest of the herd. “That one, your Highness. He’s gentle natured with an easy gate.”

Rhae eyes the gelding. He seems leggier than the others, but sturdy. As they watch, the gelding turns his face to them with a big brown eye and ears swivelling to catch their voices.

“Is he trained for battle?”

Master Hullin snorts. “I’m not sure a warhorse is befitting a lady, your Highness.”

“Better a horse who knows how to defend his rider than one that bucks and bolts at the first sign of trouble.”

Master Hullin studies her, then, finally, points to a slightly taller mare beside the gelding, dapple gray with a wide face and soft feathers about her hooves. “That one is young and only half-broken but she is being trained as a warhorse.”

“You would let me buy a horse that is only half-broken?”

“You can train her yourself to better suit your needs.”

“I assume you will help with that.” It is less of a question and more a statement. Rhae knows she is young but she is a Princess of the Seven Kingdoms and learned to traverse the adult world at her mothers’ knees. Adults would find her difficult to domineer.

“Of course, your Highness.”

“What is the mare’s name?”

“She is unnamed as of yet.”

The mare seems to know they are discussing her. She picks her way across the paddock to toss her head over the fence, stretching her velvet nose towards Rhae.

Rhae smiles, reaching out to stroke her. “You’re beautiful and you know it, don’t you, pretty girl?”

The mare whuffles at Rhae’s hand, moving so her neck is in reach and Rhae obliges, scratching behind the mare’s ears. 

Still rubbing her hand over the mare’s neck, Rhae says, “I would like to purchase her, if you don’t mind.”

Master Hullin sighs. “I will inform Lord Stark of your request.”

“Thank you, Master Hullin. If Lord Stark accepts my offer I would like to begin working with her tomorrow after lunch.”

Master Hullin grunts. “As it pleases her Highness.”

Rhae nods to him. “Thank you. Until tomorrow, then.”


	4. Chapter 4

Rhae leaves Master Hullin at the paddock, returning to the keep with a sweep of her heavy skirts. Even in Spring The North is far colder than the Crownlands. She shivers as a wind whips across the courtyard, hurrying into the warmth of the stone keep.

She turns down a hall, wondering if she can find her way to the library, and promptly bumps into something solid. She stumbles back. 

“Begging your pardon - oh, it’s you.” Robb Stark glowers at her. “So sorry, Dragon-girl.” He spits the nickname like poison.

Rhae sneers. “No, please, excuse me, Wolf-boy.”

Robb’s eyes narrow. Rhae moves her hands behind her back, fingering the daggers hidden beneath the sleeves of her dress, but Robb only glares before turning on his heel and striding away.

Rhae releases the breath she was holding, watching him disappear down the long hall. She needs to keep her distance for Robb Stark, if only so she doesn’t punch him in the nose, the brat.

Rhae spends the rest of her afternoon in the library, avoiding the rest of the household. It’s a much smaller library than the Red Keep’s, tucked in a far away corner of Winterfell and tended only by Septon Chayle, a cheerful young man who seems pleased to find another soul who enjoys reading. 

He shows Rhae to the histories of The North then leaves her to read in peace by candlelight. It’s only when Lord Tyrion comes searching for her that Rhae realizes how long she has been there.

“I thought I would find you here,” the little Lion says, settling onto the bench across from her. 

Rhae jumps, looking up from her book. “Lord Tyrion! I didn’t see you there.”

“Of course not. What are you reading?”

“It’s a history of House Stark from before The Conquest.” Rhae places a finger on her page and closes the book, turning it to show Lord Tyrion the cover.

“Fascinating,” Lord Tyrion drawls but he smiles so Rhae knows he’s teasing. “I’m off to Castle Black tomorrow.”

Rhae’s gut twists. “Can I come with you?”

Tyrion’s green eyes soften. “I’m afraid not, Sunshine. Castle Black is the last beacon of civilization before the land becomes Wilding Country. Desperate and criminal men are sent to Castle Black to guard the border. It isn’t safe for a lady such as yourself.”

Rhae’s shoulders slump.

Tyrion reaches across the table to grasp her hand. “The Starks are good folk, your Highness, and you will be happy here - eventually.”

“Robb Stark hates me and Theon Greyjoy is…”

“The Greyjoy boy is not his father and Lord Ned is a good man.” Tyrion reminds her gently. “You will be safe here, safer than King’s Landing. Besides, young Arya seems to like you a great deal and little Lady Sansa is a sweet girl.”

“How do you know so much?”

Tyrion smirks. “That’s what I do,” he says. “I drink and I know things.”

Rhae’s mouth twitches at the old joke. “I will miss you.”

“And I you, little Dragon.”

Rhae watches Lord Tyrion disappear down the Kingsroad the next morning, fighting back tears. She is alone now in Winterfell. Lord Tyrion takes the rest of the guards and servants that travelled north with them, leaving only Sandor behind. 

The giant teen stands behind her in the courtyard, a comforting presence watching her back. “Come along, Sunshine,” he growls gently. “Ye haven’t practiced yer archery in days.”

Rhae turns away, straightening her spine. “Yes, of course.”

Arya Stark finds her at the archery range as she collects her arrows from the target. The little wolf picks up Rhae’s bow, examining the weapon of yew, the ends capped in silver and limbs carved with delicate orange blossoms. “Can you teach me?” she asks as Rhae approaches.

Rhae blinks down at her, then smiles. “I could, but not with this bow. And not without your father’s permission.”

Arya’s pale face falls. “He won’t allow it.”

“You never know if you don’t ask.”

Arya eyes her. “Maybe I will.”

Rhae takes her bow and places an arrow to the string, pulling it back using her shoulder blades as she was taught, sighting downrange and loosing. The arrow hits with a thump to the left of center. Rhae smiles ruefully. “As you can see, I need to practice.” She lowers her bow and glances at Arya. “If you’re to ask your father for archery lessons you should also ask for sword lessons.”

“He’ll never get me those.”

“Then perhaps I should write to your Aunt Lyanna. She found a Braavosi water dancer to teach me since the big swords are too heavy.”

“A water dancer?”

“Aye, a water dancer. But you would have to wake at dawn as I do if you wish to learn.”

“Don’t go giving the girl ideas,” Sandor growls, folding his arms over his broad chest.

“Ignore him,” Rhae says with a flip of her black braid. “Sandor is a great grump.”

“Arya?” Lady Catelyn strides across the practice yard. “What are you doing?”

“Rhae was showing me her bow,” Arya answers. “Mother, can I learn? Please?”

Lady Catelyn scowls. She never looks pleased, Rhae thinks, except maybe with Sansa. It seems highly unfair. “Weapons are not the purview of ladies.”

Rhae frowns but bites her tongue. She is now the ward of Lady Catelyn, entrusted to her care and guidance. She must obey her as she would her own mothers. Rhae bows her head. “As my Lady says.”

Still, as Lady Catelyn leads Arya back inside, she already plans a letter to her mothers. Her lessons in water dancing are incomplete, after all. Perhaps Lord Stark will permit her to invite her teacher to Winterfell.

Syrio Forel arrives at Winterfell a month into Rhae’s stay, dismounting from his horse with a spring in his step and a gallant bow to Rhae as she rushes to greet him. “Syrio!” she cries, stopping just short to sweep a deep curtsey. 

“My Princess!” Syrio returns with the rolling ‘r’ of his native Braavos.

“I’m so glad you agreed to come!”

“How could I not? You wrote so wonderfully of the beauty of this Northern country. And I have gifts from your brothers and mothers.” He waves to a chest being unloaded by a pair of Winterfell’s servants. “Bring that here, my friends. It is for the princess.”

Rhae beams, quickly falling on the chest. Inside are letters from her mothers and brothers - and one letter from Lyanna to Lord Stark - that she sets aside to read later. Books take up most of the space in the chest, wrapped in bolts of heavy cloth for her to make into new dresses. In a smaller, velvet lined box are several golden hair pieces and small trinket jewelry, nothing too extravagant but beautiful. However, there is also a long, narrow package wrapped in oiled leather, a note addressed to Arya tucked into the straps holding it closed.

Rhae eyes it curiously. The note is addressed in Lyanna’s handwriting, and, if Rhae isn’t mistaken, the top of the package feels like a sword hilt. Rhae shakes her head. Of course her Wolf-Mother would send her wild niece a sword.

“If you would take this to my room,” Rhae instructs the servants, replacing the sword in the chest and standing. They bow and haul the chest away. 

“So,” Syrio says grandly, “show me this lovely new home of ours.”

Rhae loops her free hand through Syrio’s arm, leading him into the keep. 

Syrio has traveled the world over but still he exclaims of the beauty of Winterfell, calling it a grand house. He is especially enchanted by the glass gardens, the green houses heated by natural hot springs full of colorful southron flowers and fruits.

“This is a marvel,” he says, smiling at the lush pink roses. 

Rhae nods. “It is one of my favorite places here.”

“I can see why. Here you can feel the warmth of the sun.” He turns to her, dark eyes serious. “This place is far different from King’s Landing.”

Rhae looks away. “Yes.” She glances back at Syrio. He, like Sandor, has never lied to her, even about things he probably should not have told her. “Do you know why my mothers sent me here?”

Syrio’s mouth twists in a frown. “I have...suspicions.” 

Rhae waits expectantly. Pestering Syrio never works. He turns her words back on herself and then claims he is teaching her patience, an important part of swordwork.

Finally, Syrio sighs. “There were five kidnapping attempts made on you in the past six months.”

Rhae’s heart stutters. “What?”

“Your mothers confided in me so I could understand why they wished to send me here. There are conspirators in shadows, little sun, and your mothers fear for you.”

Rhae drops onto one of the stone benches tucked between beneath fruit trees, all pretense at grace gone. Kidnapping attempts? Conspirators and possible rebellion? How could she not know? “Why couldn’t I go to Dorne to Uncle Doran and Uncle Oberyn?”

Syrio sighs. “That I do not know, little sun, but perhaps it is because these Northmen are famous for their honor. Or, perhaps it is far more difficult to reach Winterfell than Sunspear.”

Rhae studies her hands, thinking. The world is far more dangerous than she knew, she is starting to realize. Hatred from the Starks, dissenters amongst the highborn. She has never been more grateful for weapons lessons. 

Sandor finds them in the glass gardens, sitting quietly beneath the bows of the fruit trees. He scowls to see them. “There ye are, yer Grace. And the dancer is here, too.”

Syrio smiles at Sandor. He and her swornshield get along as a dog and cat, snarking and cursing but never with bite. She has even seen Sandor smirk when the Braavosi's back is turned.

“You were looking for me, Sandor?”

Sandor’s gray eyes flick to her. “Aye. Lord Stark was wantin’ to see ye. Something about the dancer.”

“Of course.”

She stands, detouring to her room before going in search of Lord Stark. A servant points her to the smithy and she finds tall Lord Stark speaking with Master Mikken the blacksmith. He sees her approach and finishes with the blacksmith, turning to her with a kindly smile. 

“Rhaenys,” he greets her. She smiles in return. He, Sansa, and Arya are the only three in Winterfell she has convinced to call her by her name. The others call her  _ her Highness _ or  _ Princess _ or  _ my lady. _ All of which are better than Robb Stark’s  _ Dragon-girl _ said with such venom she wants to recoil as if burned.

“Lord Ned,” she returns. She holds out the letter from Lyanna. “A letter from my Wolf-Mother.”

He barely hides the flinch. He always flinches when she calls Lyanna her Wolf-Mother but she will not stop. Not when that is what Lyanna is. She will force these stubborn Northmen to see the truth. 

He takes the letter in his large gloved hand and breaks the blue-gray wax stamped with the Targaryen dragon. His pale gray eyes rove over the parchment and his dower face cracks a smile near the end. 

When he is done, he folds the letter and tucks it into the pocket of his cloak with a shake of his head and a soft laugh. “She has not changed.” 

“She always makes me laugh. You wanted to see me?”

“Yes, I did. I hear your teacher, the Braavosi water dancer has arrived?”

“Yes, my Lord. Master Syrio. He has come to continue my lessons.”

Lord Ned considers her. “Would he consent to take on another pupil?”

Rhae beams. “I believe he will, my Lord. You need only ask.”


	5. Chapter 5

Arya joins her in the practice yard at dawn the morning after Syrio comes to Winterfell. Her hair is wild and her eyes are still groggy, but she wears breeches, a shirt and boots, seeming ready enough for her lessons.

While Syrio begins with Arya, Rhae turns to the archery range, knocking her bow and loosing arrows. Her aim is precision today as she attempts to march her arrows inward towards the bullseye in as straight a line as she can manage. She’s only mildly successful.

“Come, my princess,” Syrio calls. “We are ready for you now.”

Rhae turns with a smile. “Excellent. What are we working on today?”

Sandor grunts, taking her bow and moving to the sidelines. Rhae ignores his grumpiness, focusing instead on Syrio.

The Braavosi returns her smile and pulls out a wooden practice sword. Rhae recognizes it immediately by the nicks in the blade and idle, swirling carving on the handle. “My old practice sword!”

“You left it in King’s Landing, your Highness, and I did not think you would mind if I brought it along.”

Rhae takes it gratefully, spinning the dull blade with ease. It’s weighted with lead, unlike the practice swords she has used in Winterfell, and she much prefers it over the lighter weapons. The lead builds her endurance, allowing her to fight longer and harder than larger opponents. “Thank you, Syrio.”

“It was my pleasure, your Highness. Now, if you would help me demonstrate your warmup exercises.”

Rhae obliges, moving slowly through the first and easiest of the pattern dances Syrio has taught her. She finishes with her blade pointed straight out in a sideways stance. A bead of sweat trickles down her temple; it takes far more control to do the dance slowly than quickly.

Syrio nods when she is done. “Excellent, Princess. Now,” he turns to Arya, “that is the first dance you will learn, but first you must build muscle.”

Rhae drinks from the waterskin Sandor offers while Syrio begins showing Arya all of the leaps, tumbles, and cartwheels Rhae first learned before Syrio ever permitted her to touch a practice sword, let alone a true blade.

Arya is attempting to cartwheel when Syrio turns on Rhae. “And what is the princess doing?” he asks. “Standing there and watching when she should be dancing.”

Rhae flushes. “Apologies, Master.” Quickly she picks up her practice sword and moves into position. “Which dance would you like to see?”

Syrio hums. “I think the Crescent Dance.”

Rhae sighs - the Crescent Dance is the most difficult for her to master, requiring precise footwork - and begins, moving in the half moon for which the dance is named, slowly moving her weighted sword through the air. 

She makes a wrong step and Syrio taps her foot with his own wooden practice sword. “Start again.” 

He catches her wrist at the wrong angle. “Again.”

It takes three more starts for her to finish the dance to Syrio’s satisfaction and Arya has moved on to standing atop a barrel on one foot. Rhae greedily gulps from her waterskin, sweat trickling down her back. Practice dances are important, she knows. They teach one how to wield a sword and create muscle memory for the passes, feints and strikes that win a duel, but, by all the gods, she hates the Crescent Dance.

“What is this?” Lord Ned’s deep voice comes from behind her.

Rhae turns to greet him but his attention is on his daughter balancing on one foot atop a barrel. 

“Syrio says a water dancer can stand on one toe for hours,” Arya answers.

“It’s a hard fall from up there,” Lord Ned comments.

“Syrio says every hurt is a lesson and every lesson makes you better.”

Rhae’s mouth twitches. Her teacher seems to have created quite the follower in the space of one morning. She doesn’t blame Arya. The Braavosi has that effect on her, too.

“Tomorrow I’m going to be chasing cats,” Arya continues, wobbling slightly on her barrel.

“Cats?” Lord Ned asks.

“Yes,” Syrio answers with a smile. “You can come down now, little Wolf.”

Arya drops to two feet and hops down from the barrel, smiling. “Syrio says every swordsman should study cats. They’re quiet as shadows and as light as feathers. You have to be quick to catch them.”

Lord Ned smiles. “Master Syrio is right about that.”

Syrio bows. “You honor me.”

“Let me honor you at our table,” Lord Ned offers. “Breakfast will begin soon.”

Arya perks up at the prospect of food. She starts to scamper off then stops and turns. “Thank you for my lesson,” she says politely.

“It was my pleasure, little Wolf,” Syrio replies. “You will join us at dawn tomorrow?”

Arya nods eagerly. “And every day after.” Then she turns and darts off, heading inside.

Lord Ned smiles as he watches his daughter disappear through the door into Winterfell. “My sister was right. Arya was made for the shieldmaiden’s path.”

“If it pleases my Lord,” Rhae says, “I will go wash up for breakfast.”

Lord Ned nods. “Yes, of course.”

Sandor follows her inside, as he ever does. Even within the walls of Winterfell he is her giant shadow, leaving her side only to sleep, joining the guards in the barracks. She suspects he also goes into Wintertown for drink and female companionship but she prefers not to pry into her swornshield’s private affairs.

“You don’t have to follow me everywhere,” she comments as she turns down the corridor to her room.

“I am your swornshield,” Sandor says, “and you’re the one who wanted me so stop fucking complaining.”

Rhae snorts. If anyone ever heard Sandor speak in such a way he would surely be removed from her service. Thankfully, he knows better and holds his tongue when around others. In truth, she is grateful he does not treat her like she is delicate, and he does respect her, in his own way.

As is her usual schedule, Rhae joins Sansa, Jeyne, Beth and Arya in lessons with Septa Mordane after breakfast. Her embroidery is still poor but the younger girls - save Arya - exclaim over the fabric she pulls from the chest her family sent. It’s enough fabric for ten simple dresses and she gives enough to each girl - including Arya - to have one of their own. 

Lady Catelyn thanks her graciously and even smiles at her. 

After sewing, they move on to music lessons. One of the gifts her Spear-Mother sent was a Dornish drum: two half sheets of bronze formed into bowls, the sides melded together and the insides hollow. The drum has eight notes that ring like bells, beautiful and clear. Rhae has always wanted a Dornish drum and now she has one of her very own, painted with flowing white trees and flowers. 

“What is that?” Sansa asks.

Rhae settles the drum in her lap, sitting cross legged on the stone floor. “It’s a Dornish drum.”

Sansa runs a finger along the edge of the drum. “It’s beautiful.”

Rhae taps a note experimentally. It rings clearly, reverberating off the stone walls. “Thank you.” She glances up at Lady Catelyn. “If you don’t mind, my Lady, the drum is not an instrument best heard in such close quarters. Perhaps I could go outside?”

Lady Catelyn considers for a moment. “Let us all go to the main hall. There is enough room there and the sound quality is lovely. Sansa, bring your lap harp.”

Beth Cassel follows Rhae down the steps into the hall. “How do you play your drum?” she asks.

“I’m not sure,” Rhae admits. “My cousin Obara plays by tapping out the notes in a rhythm but she never let me touch her drum.”

“So you don’t know how to play?” Jeyna asks behind her.

Rhae’s mouth twitches. “No, I do not. Isn’t that exciting?”

The hall is empty, the great hearth fire crackling merrily to keep the early Spring chill at bay. Rhae helps to arrange benches in front of the fire before settling on the stone floor and placing the drum in her lap.

She taps the drum experimentally. The best she can figure, playing the drum is about rhythm and knowing which notes fit together best. It should be easy enough if one has an ear for music and can keep a steady beat. 

Jeyne and Beth watch her avidly, quite forgetting the sewing of their new dresses. Rhae tries to ignore the nerves in her belly as she studies the drum. It is one thing to embarrass herself in front of her cousins. It is quite another to make a fool of herself in front of girls she hardly knows whose families most decidedly do not like her.

Still, there is nothing learned if one is afraid to try. She can hear her Uncle Jaime’s voice rumble in her mind so she takes a breath and starts attempting a rhythm from the sheet music included with the drum. 

“What’s that bloody noise?”

Rhae stops mid drum after a particularly jangling combination of notes. Theon and Robb stand at the door to the hall. Theon holds his hands over his ears and Robb’s face is screwed up in mock pain.

“Theon,” Lady Catelyn reprimands sharply. 

Theon slowly removes his hands from his ears, eyeing the women and girls by the fire.

Rhae forces a smile, setting her drum aside. “I think that’s enough for today.” She ignores the boys, turning instead to Sansa. “Do you know any songs we can sing?”

Sansa considers, following Rhae’s lead and ignoring the boys. “I know ‘The Maid and the Selkie,’” she offers. 

“I like that one,” Beth says. 

“It’s a lovely song,” Septa Mordane agrees and so Sansa begins to play, pulling the haunting notes from her lap harp with deft ease. As she strums, Beth, Jeyne and Rhae sing quietly, their voices rising in a twining tune.

Rhae begins the song, taking up the Selkie’s words in a full, melodic alto:

_ Once a fair and handsome Seal Lord _

_ Lay his foot upon the sand _

_ For to woo the Fisher's daughter _

_ And to claim her marriage hand _

_ 'I have come in from the ocean _

_ I have come in from the sea _

_ And I'll not go to the waves, love, _

_ Lest ye come along with me.' _

Jeyne and Beth answer as the Maid, their soprano voices high and clear:

_ 'Lord, long have I loved you _ _ A _

_ a Selkie on the foam _

_ I would gladly go and wed ye _

_ And be lady of your home _

_ But I cannot go into the ocean _

_ I cannot go into the sea _

_ I would drown beneath the waves, love, _

_ If I went along with thee.' _

And so they trade the song’s words, singing of the Selkie’s love that the Maid returned, of the grandmother who gave them a sealcoat for the Maid to follow her love into the sea. 

It is truly one of Rhae’s favorites, beautiful and lilting, with an ending of love and happiness, a rare thing in the world of romantic ballads.

The last note fades, leaving the Maid and Selkie living happily beneath the waves. Rhae smiles dreamily, her eyes half closed. For a moment, she has returned to the sunlit gardens of the Red Keep, her favorite bard strumming a lilting tune on his lute.

“That was lovely, girls,” Lady Catelyn’s voice breaks the quiet.

“Thank you, my Lady,” Jeyne and Beth chorus.

“Thank you, Mother,” Sansa echoes with a pretty blush. There doesn't seem to be anything that girl does that isn’t pretty.

"What did you boys think?" Lady Catelyn turns to Robb and Theon, still standing by the door.

"It sounded good," Robb says readily.

Beside him, Theon nods. "Very good."

"Some parts could use work though," Robb adds, blue eyes on Rhae.

Rhae glares.  _ The little snot _ .

"Robb!" Lady Catelyn says sharply.

"Some people just don't have an appreciation for music," Rhae sneers back. 

Robb glowers but he has already pushed his luck with his mother far enough today. He and Theon leave. Rhae takes up her drum, returning to her room and putting it away.

_ Let the little wolf snap and snarl, _ she thinks savagely.  _ I am only here three years then I can go home.  _

The thought sends a wave of homesickness over her.  _ What are my mothers doing? _ she wonders, tracing a finger along the chest from home.  _ What mischief are Eggy and Jon getting into without me? _

She stands with a sigh. It does no good to wallow in her homesickness. Over the next several weeks Rhae does her best to keep the thoughts of her family at bay. It gets easier as Spring begins the slow turn to Summer and Lady Catelyn brings the girls into the stillroom. It’s hard, hot work as she puts them to grinding and mixing herbs in the mornings.

Rhae escapes to the stables in the afternoons, leaving an irate Arya behind. Under Master Hullin’s direction, Rhae works her new mount. The horse is more filly than mare, young and high spirited, but she has the makings of a fine warhorse, already tall with powerful muscles that seem tireless in the small arena. 

During Rhae’s second week of working with her new horse, whom she names Tempest, Master Hullins starts teaching Rhae how to train horses under saddle. Sandor is there for those lessons and laughs uproariously when Tempest shies away from Rhae as she attempts to climb onto the saddle, dumping her in the muck.

Cursing, Rhae flings a handful of mud at her swornshield as she stands. Sandor dodges easily, still laughing. Even Master Hullin fights a grin, holding Tempest by the bridle. Rhae tries to wipe the mud from her breeches and only smeers the mess. She sighs.

“Would your Highness like to go inside a wash up?”

Rhae looks down at her hands, black hair falling into her face. Mud and muck covers her palms and there is not a chance of snow in dragon’s fire that she’ll be able to keep hold of Tempest’s reins, let alone her saddle. She nods, frowning. 

“Yes,” she says, “I believe we are done for today. Thank you, Master Hullin.” She dips her hands in the water trough to clean them before helping to give Tempest a rub down as Master Hullin insists.

With Tempest stabled, she returns to her room where a steaming tub waits for her, a maidservant bringing in soap for her hair and body as she lowers herself into the hot water. The young woman runs scented oil into Rhae's hair as Rhae scrubs her skin clean.

"Are you excited for tonight, your Highness?" the woman asks. 

Rhae isn't really paying attention, too busy working dirt from under her fingernails. "Hmm?" She asks, dipping her hands back below the surface. She pulls them back up but that persistent clump of mud beneath her left thumbnail is still there.

The maid, Lalasa, pours warm water over Rhae’s hair, running a comb through the long black sheet. “The Beltane feast, your Highness.”

Rhae starts, turning in the large tub to stare up at the taller woman. “It’s  _ Beltane? _ ”

Lalasa smiles, dark hair falling across her round cheeks as she nods. “Yes, and there’s to be a feast tonight. Didn’t you see the servants decorating the halls?”

Rhae slumps back, water sloshing over the side of the tub.  _ Beltane? By the gods.  _ She came to The North in early Spring, the snow just beginning to melt and now it’s the beginning of Summer. She hadn’t even noticed.

Lalasa helps into a dress, one of her new, Northern style ones made of dark purple brocade with silver trim and long, flowing sleeves. Silver isn’t her usual preference but Sansa had insisted it would set off the purple. Her long black hair she leaves flowing loose down her back, two thin braids holding it from her face and pinned at the back of her head with a silver dragon clip to match the dress’ trim.

Rhae studies her reflection in the mirror. She thinks Sansa was right, that purple looks good against her skin and matches her eyes. She runs her hands over the skirt, thinner than the Winter and Spring dresses, and straightens her spine.  _ A Beltane feast. Sounds like fun. _

Her Wolf-Mother and Spear-Mother once described Beltane as the celebration of life. Spear-Mother said it was when The Mother and The Warrior came together to bless the world. Wolf-Mother said it was when the Old Gods breathed green life back into the world after the deadening cold of Winter. Both agreed it was an important celebration, whichever gods you believe in, and that the best person to spend it with is the one you love. 

In previous years, that meant Rhae, Eggy, and Jon were left to their own devices after the feasting while their mothers retreated to their rooms to spend time together. As she gets older, Rhae begins to suspect what, exactly, her mothers do in their rooms when they are alone but, for now, it is none of her business.

Instead, Rhae joins Arya, Sansa, Beth, and Jeyne at their table in the great hall where Southron jugglers and fire dancers perform lively routines and servants serve up suckling pig, goose, fruits and vegetables from the glass gardens, three different potato dishes, pastries baked to a perfect golden brown, meat pies, and, set directly in front of Sansa, a tray of lemon cakes.

Rhae takes some of everything, happily eating until her dress is a little tight around her stomach. She excuses herself to use the lavatory and when she returns servants are clearing the center of the hall.

"What's going on?" Rhae asks Jeyne.

"They're making room for dancing," Jeyne explains as if it is obvious.

“They don’t - I’m not dancing with anyone.”

Jeyne smiles, looping her arm through Rhae’s and dragging her to the corner with Sansa and Beth. “Of course not,” she says. “We’re too young but it is fun to watch.”

Arya has disappeared off somewhere, leaving Rhae with the three girls who gush and chatter about how romantic Beltane is. Rhae isn't sure she agrees. The jumping over fire to ensure fertility in the coming summer looks fun - her mothers always laughed when they jump together to bring new growth to the Seven Kingdoms - but the rest of it is just another party. There's no real romantic magic in Beltane like Beth claims as she points at a couple standing close together in a shadowed corner.

"Does The North celebrate any other feast days?" Rhae asks, bending close so Sansa can hear her.

The tall redhead nods enthusiastically. "Oh yes. The next one is the Festival of Light to honor the gods of summer; it's on the summer solstice. Then there's the Harvest Festival. That one is less of a feast and more of a sporting contest. There will be games and tournaments in honor of the Old Gods as thanks for the summer of growth. We also have a feast at the Autumn Equinox and, of course, Yuletide."

Rhae nods. She knows Yuletide, held on the longest night of the year when families gather together to wait for the sun to rise and then exchange presents at dawn, but the others are new. She almost looks forward to seeing how The North celebrates the changing of the seasons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song is called 'The Miaden and the Selkie' by Heather Dale and is SO PRETTY


	6. Chapter 6

Summer in The North is shorter than Rhae expects and her nameday comes sooner than she realized. Sandor is the first to make note of it. He tosses her a small package wrapped in plain brown paper when she joins him in the practice yard at dawn. She catches it, surprised. "What-?"

"Nameday," he grunts, uncomfortable with even the slightest show of affection.

Rhae beams, eagerly ripping into the package. Inside is a small, perfectly carved figurine of a northern horse. With the feathering around the hooves and proudly arching neck, it looks very much like Tempest. "It's beautiful, Sandor," she says, cradling the figurine to her chest. "Thank you."

"Ye'd best go put it away afore ye break it," Sandor grumbles without looking at her. 

Rhae races back to her room without a word. On the mantel above her fireplace, two other wooden figurines are carefully placed. The first is a rose in bloom, the other is a set of crossed swords. Both were given to her by Sandor on previous namedays, tokens meant to affirm his loyalty after she picked him to be her swornshield out of all the other knights-in-training at the Red Keep. 

Rhae carefully places her new horse figurine next to the crossed swords, shifting the gift slightly for the best angle. At one time she might have had the beginnings of a crush on Sandor Clegane, but it faded quickly. He treats her too much like a kid sister left to his begrudging care. Now he is too much an older almost-brother.

When Rhae returns to the practice yard, Arya is there, practicing her tumbling and cartwheels under Syrio's watchful eye, and she has an audience. Ser Rodrick, Theon, and Robb have not come to the practice yard since Syrio arrived in Winterfell and Arya began her sword lessons but the three of them watch Arya as she executes a perfect cartwheel.

"These exercises are good for teaching agility," Syrio says as Rhae approaches. "I would be more than willing to instruct your students in this as well."

Ser Rodrick nods, frowning, sharp eyes watching as Arya moves seamlessly from a cartwheel to a backflip. "That may be no bad thing," he says slowly. "Our armor is not made for agility, of course, but the ability to know how to twist and turn away could prove useful."

A sneer twists Theon's face but he doesn't dare speak against Ser Rodrick. Instead, he turns his unhappy expression on Rhae.

Syrio sees Theon's face, however, and he smiles. "Come, my princess," he calls, "show them your twist and turn game with Ser Sandor."

Sandor rolls his eyes. "Not a Ser," he grumbles, but he picks up a large wooden practice sword and settles into his stance.

Rhae grins, moving to the center of the practice yard to face Sandor, ignoring Robb and Theon. The 'twist and turn game,' as Syrio calls it, is designed to teach her how to fight a swordsman with only a knife. The point of the game is for one of them to touch the other, Sandor with his dull sword or she with her hand. Whoever touches the other first wins. 

Rhae dodges his first swing with his dull edged practice sword, spinning away then ducking under. She almost manages to touch his chest but he pulls back and she slides past him, dropping into a roll and letting the momentum carry her away. She regains her feet in one fluid movement, just in time to spin away as Sandor's sword comes down on her from behind. 

They circle each other, Sandor's sword held between them, Rhae's hands up. 

His arms flex and Rhae dodges to the left, avoiding a swing of his blade toward her side. She kicks out, hitting his knee with enough force to bring him half down. He swings his sword up to block a potential strike to his side but Rhae moves to his back and kicks again, aiming for his kidneys. 

He drops forward with a pained grunt. Rhae lunges in, wrapping her arm around his forehead and pressing the side of her closed fist to his neck as if she held a dagger.

"Yield?" She pants, sweat trickling down her back. A single drop drips into her eyes and she blinks furiously, shaking away the loose strands of hair from her face.

Sandor grunts. "I yield."

Rhae leaps away with a cheer, forgetting they have an audience. Sandor is strong and almost inhumanely fast. It's not often she manages to beat him. Only once out of every eight games, she reckons. 

"There is no honor in fighting with your hands,” Robb sneers from the sidelines.

Rhae scowls, whirling on him. Leave it to the Wolf Brat to ruin her nameday victory.

"There is no honor in dying simply because one lacks a weapon," Syrio corrects gently. "Now, my princess, show these young men your tumbling."

Rhae gives Robb one last glare before falling forward into a roll, springing to her feet in front of Syrio at the end. 

Her teacher smiles. "Excellent, your highness." Turning back to Robb and Theon, he continues, "Agility training will make you faster than the person trying to kill you."

Dismissed for the moment, Rhae goes to her waterskin and takes a long drink. Sandor joins her, drinking from his own waterskin. When he catches her eye, his mouth stretches into a small, lopsided smirk. Rhae beams. It's her nameday _and_ Sandor smiled. She is truly fortunate indeed.

"Syrio said you'll show me the Guard Dance."

Rhae jumps. She hadn't seen Arya appear at her elbow. She gasps for air to calm her racing heart. "You need to wear a bell," she informs the younger girl.

"I thought the point of Syrio's lessons was to teach you how to be aware of your surroundings," Arya replies, blinking innocent gray eyes at her. 

Rhae's own purple eyes narrow suspiciously. After nearly four months with the Starks, she knows there is nothing less innocent than a seemingly innocent Arya. "Practice your sneaking on someone else," she orders.

Arya's innocence transforms into a wicked grin. "Want to help me scare Sansa?"

" _No_." 

Arya sticks out her lower lip. “You’re no fun.”

“Tormenting your sister is not fun,” Rhae informs her primly. A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth and she glances at Robb and Theon as they fail to fall correctly under Syrio’s watchful eye. “Working with your sister to torment your brothers, however…”

Arya shakes her head fiercely. “I don’t want to torment Robb!”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s _Robb_ ,” Arya informs her as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"A Robb is a Robb is a Robb," Rhae replies with a shrug. 

"Huh?"

Rhae licks her lips. So what if she’s using Arya to get back at the wolf boy? It’s not like it’ll hurt anyone. "Who cares if he's Robb?” she says. “There must be something you've always wanted to do."

Arya considers. “He hates frogs…”

She almost laughs but shakes her head. “He’d probably kill it if we put one in his bed and that’s not fair to the frog.”

Arya bites her lips, thinking, then she brightens. “What if we put a bucket of water up over his bedroom door? It would fall on him when he opened it.”

Rhae considers but shakes her head. “No, we’d have to clean up the mess, or a maid would. We need something that will be inconvenient for him but won’t cause any extra work for us.”

Arya nods. “Alright.”

“Why do I not see you dancing?” Syro calls. 

“Sorry, Master.” Rhae hefts her practice sword. “Come on, I’ll show you the dance.”

The Guard Dance is the easiest of the one hundred and thirty six water dances. It is meant to train the novice dancer in keeping the sword up between them and their adversary. Rhae runs through the dance twice to show Arya then has the younger girl shadow her.

Sweat trickles down her spine as the sun begins to warm the air. She lunges slowly, sword extended. Arya mimics her. 

“You are doing well,” Ned Stark’s voice comes from behind. 

Rhae almost loses her balance, catching herself in time to stand and turn. Arya beams at her father. 

“The little wolf is working very hard,” Syrio says, coming over to stand beside Lord Ned. “Show us the dance. You too, Princess.”

Rhae nods, settling into the first position, Arya at her side. They work through the dance again, ending in the lunge. When they straighten Lord Ned is nodding, smiling slightly. “Well done.”

At breakfast Rhae does not expect a lavish celebration but she has never had a nameday completely ignored. Everyone eats as normal with the minimal morning conversation. Rhae sits between Arya and Sansa, across from young Bran, and not a single Stark or Theon Greyjoy mentions her nameday. She leaves the informal dining room with a strange feeling in her stomach, almost like a weight. 

Sandor falls into step behind her as she heads for the stables, her silent shadow. Master Hullen greets her at the stable door. “We’ll be going for a hunt, highness,” he says gruffly, arms folded across his broad chest.

Rhae blinks, momentarily distracted. “Are you sure Tempest is ready?”

Master Hullen shrugs. “We’ll see. Get yer bow and saddle up.”

When she returns to the stable, bow and quiver slung over her shoulder, Lord Ned, Robb, Theon, and Sandor are busy at work saddling their own mounts. 

Lord Ned spies her first. “Princess, you’re here. Excellent. Hurry and saddle up. Cook wants venison for dinner and now is the time for the hunt.”

She almost protests, almost whines about the wolfboy and baby squid coming on the hunt, but she is fourteen today. Another year older. She has to swallow her distaste. 

Without a word, Rhae goes to Tempest’s stall and saddles the leggy mare. By the time she is done, the others have already led their mounts out of the stable and are waiting in the courtyard. She swings up into the saddle, adjusting her grip on the reins and her bow; the quiver hangs from the saddlehorn. No one says a word and a handful of bannermen join them to form a small hunting party. 

They trot through Winterfell’s west gate, called Hunter’s Gate, in two columns, Sandor guiding Stranger next to Rhae in the middle of the group. The huntmaster whistles and a pack of big, shaggy dogs race from the kennels, barking and jumping between the horses. 

Tempest snorts unhappily but Rhae sits more securely in her saddle. “Calm down, girl. They’re just stupid dogs.”

Tempest snorts but she doesn’t buck or skip or shy away when a particularly cheerful hound sniffs at her heels. 

Rhae leans down, rubbing Tempest’s neck. “Good girl.”

Beside her, Sandor grunts. “She’s comin’ along.”

“Yes,” Rhae straightens in her saddle, “she’s doing very well.”

The trees grow thick on either side of the forest road, golden light dappling the ground. The jingle of tack and thump of hooves fill the air. Rhae breaths in deep. It’s the first time she has left the fortress since she arrived. The world on the other side of gray stone walls is green with summer life and the warm air smells clean, like freedom and wild places.

That is the blessing of The North, she thinks. Everything is so green and there is no stink of an overcrowded city such as King’s Landing. Not that she would ever admit that aloud. Her eyes cut to the curly red head bobbing along behind Lord Ned. If she ever admitted to liking The North better than King’s Landing and the wolf boy found out, she would never hear the end of it. 

Lord Ned slows his big stallion to an easy walk. “Spread out,” he calls, “and move quietly.”

Rhae guides Tempest between the trees, keeping an eye out for movement in the underbrush. Several of the hunters brought falcons to chase down rabbits and squirrels. Rhae, having no bird partner, secures her reins to the saddlehorn and uses her knees to guide her horse.

It takes three hours and Rhae has wandered far from the other hunters when she comes across a wide clearing. A small herd of fallow deer graze at the center. As quietly as she can, Rhae lifts her bow. Movement to her left, catches her eye. Robb and Theon hide in the bushes, the sun glinting off a metal piece on one of their saddles. A twig cracks.

The deers' heads shoot up. Their brown heads swivel, ears twitching, searching the trees. The wind shifts, coming from the north, from - _¡Mierda!_

She lets her arrow lose but it's too late. The wind carries her scent to the deer and they bound away. Her arrow catches a stag in the haunches, a second bolt pierces it's heart.

The deer topples and Rhae kicks Tempest into a trot. Robb and Theon emerge from the trees, Theon's expression thunderous.

"Way to go, Princess," he sneers. "You scared the deer away."

Rhae bares her teeth. "Mind yourself, Greyjoy."

"Have you not hunted before?" Robb challenged. "Surely you must know to keep downwind."

"And surely you know that the wind is ever changing," she snaps back.

"That is quite the prize." Lord Ned trots from the trees, smiling wide at the three youngsters. "Who fired the kill shot?"

Rhae presses her lips together. Her arrow sprouts from the deer's haunch but that is not what brought it down.

Theon grins, vicious. "It was Robb."

Lord Ned smiles at his son. “Well done.”

Rhae bags three rabbits during the hunt. Sandor takes another deer. A horn call echoes through the trees as the sun’s rays pierce the trees in horizontal beams of golden light. She turns Tempest back toward Winterfell and soon the hunters have reconvened on the forest rode, all congratulating each other on a hunt well done. 

The biggest prize of the day is Robb’s buck and Rhae gives him a begrudging congratulations. She narrows her eyes at his and Theon’s smug smiles and turns her back on them, trotting Tempest back to Winterfell.

Sansa meets her at the stables, pretty red hair braided, wearing a soft blue-gray summer dress. She instructs Sandor to care for Tempest with an adorably imperious lift of her chin then drags Rhaenys back to her room.

Lalasa waits with a steaming bath and douses her with a pitcher of water the moment she settles in the tub. “Arm.”

Rhae hands over her arm and Lalasa proceeds to scrub her from head to toe, rubbing scented oil into her air then drying her off and stuffing her into a pale purple dress. With the help of another maid, Lalasa pins Rhae's hair back and fixes a pale white gardenia from the glass gardens behind her ear.

“There,” she says, stepping back.

Rhae blinks at her maid. “What’s going on? Why the fuss?”

Lalasa and the other maid smile but neither answer. Sansa reappears and links their arms, pulling Rhae through the corridors and back outside. 

“Sansa,” Rhae laughs, almost tripping over her skirts, “where are we going?”

Sansa flashes a cheeky grin. “This way.”

They turn down the path for the glass gardens and Rhae sees the door is held wide open. The humid heat is a wall that smacks her in the face as Sansa drags her inside. The fragrant scents of flowers fill the air, paired with the strumming of a lute and a melodic voice.

Rhae rounds a corner and the garden beds open to a clear space canopied in tall fruit trees, a round table set at the center. The Starks mill about, drinking, chatting, and listening to the lone musician playing before a flowering rosebush. 

A blonde girl hovers nervously near the musician, a tall silver haired man at her side. Rhae gasps then flies across the space, colliding with Cirilla diCentra. 

Ciri grunts. “What-?”

She pulls back, beaming into Ciri’s pale face. Cirilla diCentra is Rhae's best friend, the daughter of Geralt and either Renfri or Yennefer, Rhae has never been sure which. Either way, Cirilla travels across the countryside with all four of her parents, Geralt, Renfri, Yennefer and Jaskier, and always brings back the best stories to tell Rhae.

"What're you doing here?" She laughs, ignoring the joyful tear trickling down her cheek.

Ciri grins back. "Jaskier was hired to play at your birthday party so he brought me and Geralt along!"

Rhae looks to Geralt, the great White Wolf, hunter of monsters and bandits all across Westeros. His pale face doesn't smile but his dark blue eyes crinkle gently at the corners.

"I'm glad to see you, Ser Geralt," Rhae says.

He grunts at her, nodding, then turns back to focus on his husband, playing a lilting tune on his lute. Rhae follows his gaze, registering that it's her favorite bard playing and she almost bursts into tears at the familiar site of Jaskier playing amidst the flowers, smiling and winking at her when he sees her watching. Ciri wraps her arm around Rhae's shoulder and squeezes. 

"Missed you," Ciri says.

Rhae returns the one armed hug, roughly wiping the tears away. "Missed you too."

Sansa bounds towards them. “Are you surprised?”

Rhae nods, beaming. “Yes, thank you so much.”

“Thank Mother,” Sansa replies. 

Across the space, Lady Stark nods when she sees Rhae smiling at her, and lifts a glass of wine. 

At her side, Ciri adds, “Lady Stark wrote to the queens asking what surprise you would like for your birthday. Their Majesties sent Jaskier.”

“I have the best mothers,” Rhae sighs happily. “And so do you, Lady Sansa.”

Ciri grips Rhae's hand. “Dance with me,” she orders, tugging her towards the center of the space. Rhae grabs Sansa’s hand as she follows and Jaskier changes to an upbeat dancing tune.

Laughter bubbles out of her in a happy waterfall. When dinner is finally served she’s gasping for breath and insists that Ciri sit at her right hand, Sansa on her left. Arya chatters with Ciri without seeming to take a breath, dragging stories from the older blonde with enthusiasm. 

The wolf boy’s stag is served alongside poultry pies, roast vegetables and various sweetmeats. Rhae's mouth waters at the scents and she happily digs in, forgetting to be annoyed that the venison for her birthday feast was provided by Robb.

A trickle of juice dribbles down her chin and Lady Catelyn gives her a stern look. “It might be your birthday, Highness, but I believe you have better manners.”

Heat blooms on Rhae’s cheeks and she quickly wipes her face with her napkin. “My apologies.”

Down the table, Theon smirks at her. She can almost hear his thoughts: _Some princess._

She throttles the urge to bare her teeth at him in a vicious, feral smile, a trick she learned from Ciri’s mother, Renfri. It has the delightful effect of averting people’s eyes. Instead, she returns her focus to her meal, laughing as Ciri tells an off color joke that has Sansa blushing as red as her hair.

Jaskier begins his music again as the meal finishes and Rhae grabs Geralt before he can slink away into the shadows. 

“Dance with me, Geralt,” she begs, tugging at his hand. 

His dark eyes narrow at her. “No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

Rhae smiles. “How long are you staying?”

He shrugs.

With a roll of her eyes, she drags him over to Jaskier. The young bard sees her approach and smiles. “Princess, you glow as the morning sun.”

She giggles, flushing pink. “It’s good to see you, too, Master Bard. Now, tell your impossible husband to dance with me.”

Jaskir shakes his head sadly. “I apologize, Princess, but the White Wolf will not even dance with me.”

“How horrible,” Rhae laments. “Ser Geralt, how could you do such a thing?”

Geralt scowls at her but she is uncowed. With his silver hair and dark eyes, Geralt is a Targaryen bastard-cousin of some kind. Rhae knows that he and Rhaegar were close as children and she likes to imagine her father might look a little like him, though probably slimmer and pretty rather than rugged. It gives her a warm feeling in her chest to be near the vicious monster hunting Witcher, especially when she manages to drag stories of her father from him.

“He wounds me so,” Jaskier agrees, giving his husband a doleful look.

“Shut up,” Geralt growls.

Jaskier sighs, long and loud. 

“Jaskier, how long are you staying in Winterfell?”

The bard strums a new tune on his lute. “How long would you like us to stay, Princess?”

“A week at least,” Rhae answers. “My mothers sent me a Dornish drum several months ago and I wouldn’t mind a lesson.”

“A Dornish drum?” Jaskier grins. “Your mothers finally gave in.”

“Yes, they did, but only after I was far enough away couldn’t hear me practicing.”

Geralt snorts beside her, his version of a laugh. Jaskier shifts so when he plucks a new chord his elbow lands solidly in Geralt’s ribs. The Witcher grunts. Rhae laughs as Sansa appears at her side. 

“Come dance!” the pretty redhead urges, taking her hand. 

Rhae rejoins the laughing group of girls, skirt twirling about her legs as she skips and spins to the music. The music changes again and Ciri grabs her hand, sending her spinning and spinning and spinning and - she collides with something solid. 

She grabs on, giggling and gasping, slightly dizzy and trying not to fall. 

Blue eyes stare down at her and Rhae realizes the something solid is Robb Stark. She swallows and steps back, taking a deep breath. “My apologies.”

Robb Stark’s cheeks seem redder than normal and he nods. “It’s alright.”

She flashes him a grin without thinking and turns back to the dance. 

Jaskier finds her the next morning as she carries her drum into the godswood. It’s the best place to practice, she’s found, isolated enough that no one will deride her for her many mistakes. 

“Princess!” He greets her.

“Master Bard!” she returns with a grin. 

“Show me your music,” he says and Rhae settles into a cross legged position, drum on her lap. She starts with her scale and Jaskier leans in to listen. With her warmup done, they move on to [ a Dornish song ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=747hJQNJpeg&ab_channel=yukikoshimoto), Jaskier stopping her occasionally to correct a note or show her a better way to play her drum. 

Her muscles are stiff by the time the lesson is done and Jaskier congratulates her on learning her instrument so well. “And to think you are self taught,” he says as they return to the main keep.

Rhae shakes her head with a smile. “You only say such things because I am your patron.”

“I beg your highness’ pardon, but you are wrong,” he replies. “You’ve done very well with your drum. I do believe you have a natural gift.”

“Am I so gifted I no longer have to pay for a bard?”

Jasier hums thoughtfully. “You are very talented, your highness, but often it is more pleasure to listen than play yourself.”

Rhae laughs, beginning the climb to the second floor of the keep. “Very well put, Jaskier.”

With her drum safely put away, she and Jaskier go in search of the other young ladies of the household. They follow the low murmur of voices to the ladies’ solar where Lady Catelyn holds court with Sansa, Arya, Jayne, Beth and Septa Mordane. Strangely, young Rickon sits at his mother’s feet, playing with small wooden soldiers. He smiles and waves at Rhae.

Rhae grins, waving back. 

Lady Catelyn’s blue eyes sweep over her. “How was your lesson?”

“It was very good, my lady,” Rhae answers. “Thank you for permitting Master Jaskier to stay till the end of the week.”

“It is our pleasure to host such an accomplished bard,” Lady Catelyn responds. “Come join us. We’ve just begun our embroidery.”

Rhae glances at Jaskier. “Can the bard play for us for a while?”

“It would be our pleasure.”

As Rhae settles between Jeyne and Sansa, Jaskier begins to play a calm melody. The embroidery waiting for her in the small basket isn’t perfect like Sansa’s and the colors are slightly off but she likes the image: a wreath of flowers encircling blank fabric.

For the rest of the afternoon she works on her embroidery, then darning and mending, then Lady Catelyn tells them to put their sewing away and sets them a series of mathematical problems.

Ciri appears then, looking windblown in the dress she borrowed from Rhae, and is roped into the lesson. She and Rhae promptly fall back into their old habit of seeing who can answer the most questions as quickly as they can. By the time the supper bell tolls they have solved thirteen algebraic equations between them and Septa Mordane is praising their cleverness.

Ciri nudges Rhae's shoulder as they enter the eating hall. "We're leaving tomorrow."

Rhae's face falls. "So soon?"

Ciri nods. "Yes, but Jaskier said Lord Stark enjoyed his performance so much that we've been invited back for Yule."

Rhae snorts. "More like he wants Geralt to train with his bannermen."

Ciri grins wickedly, settling onto the bench seat. Rhae takes a seat beside her and they eat their meal in relative silence until the nagging question at the back of Rhae's mind finally surfaces. "Did you see my brothers before you left King's Landing?" She asks quietly.

"Yes, I did," Ciri answers. "I was wondering when you were going to ask about them. Here." She pulls a small packet from the pocket of her dress, passing it to her under the table.

Rhae takes the parcel eagerly but waits until she is alone in her room getting ready for bed to loosen the knotted twine. The brown paper crinkles as she pulls it apart to reveal a collection of hairpins of varying lengths and slightly strange shapes made of bronze.

She grins, picking up the thickest and holding it at eye height. The end is slightly hooked, the firelight flickered off its polished surface. _I do love my brothers._

Rhae gathers the lockpicks disguised as hairpins and hides them in the false bottom of her jewelry box before returning to the letter that accompanied the gift. It appears both her brothers contributed, the handwriting switching from Aegon's carefully curling script to Jon's blockier letters halfway down.

_Dear Rhae,_

_Happy birthday! Jon and I were hoping to come visit before it got cold but our mothers say that's impractical. We wish we could see you. The palace seems so boring without you. The Septons drone on and on during our lessons, all of it boring._

_How's The North? It must be a sight more fun than King's Landing. Wolf-Mother says you bought a horse, one of those great big ones that the northerners ride. How does that work? Don't you just fall off like you did Stranger?_

_I think Balerion misses you. He spends most of his time in your room. At least you won't have to worry about mice. I think he enjoys the quiet. I would too. Sometimes the Red Keep gets to be so loud. Our mothers' plans to foster and train as many sons of highborns to govern their lands and be knights as they can means there aren't any good places to be alone anymore, not unless I go to the library._

_Cousin Quentyn is visiting now. You should see his face when a serving girl so much as looks at him. It goes all red and you know how he looks._

_We miss you and wish you were home._

Jon wrote:

_Rhae, our sword lessons are going well. Aegon says you won't want to hear about our sword lessons but I know he's wrong, he's just embarrassed that I'm better than he is. I figure that's only fair though, since he's better at archery._

_I'm sorry we couldn't come visit you. Do you think you could come visit us? Yule isn't that far away._

_A man was caught snooping in your rooms two days ago. He was caught when Balerion started screaming and hissing. I think your cat was sleeping on your bed. I don't know why the man was there but after I went and checked that loose flagstone under your bed to make sure all your treasures were still there. They were and it didn't look like he messed with them but to be on the safe side I moved them to my room, I won't tell you where though, just in case. Aegon doesn't know about the man._

_Do you know why that man might have been in your room, Rhae? Our mothers won't say anything. I'm not sure they would even want me telling you about it but I thought you had the right to know._

_I love and I miss you. Cousin Quentyn says there are direwolves, and great white bears, and the walking dead in The North. I would really like it if you didn't let any of those things get you. Let them eat somebody else._

_Please stay safe._

_Love, His Royal Majesty Aegon VI Targaryen and His Highness, Prince Jaehaerys Stark Targaryen._

Below their signatures are their seals in wax: the king's three headed dragon encircled by a crown in crimson and Jon's personal crest of a J in curling script beneath a floating crown in blue-gray. Rhae runs her hand over their words then folds it back up and places it in the small box at the bottom of her trunk where she keeps her letters from home. 

_A man in her room._

Rhae sits on her bed, frowning at the fur rug spread before her fireplace. _Why was a man in her room?_

She shoots to her feet, sweeping from her room. Geralt is staying in the guesthouse. He will know the state of the capital and he will not sugarcoat things if she asks for the truth of it.

"Geralt," she says, shoving open the door to his room.

The big, silver haired man looks up, blinking at her. "Princess?"

It's the most relaxed she's ever seen him. His black armor hangs on a rack and he wears a comfortable cotton shirt and soft breeches. He holds a book open in his hands, back propped up against his bed's headboard.

Faced with his dark eyes Rhae's stomach twists uncomfortably, doubt creeping in. She licks her lips. "If I ask you a question, will you answer truthfully?" 

Geralt must see something in her face. Carefully, he closes his book and sets it aside, swinging his legs off his bed and leaning toward her. "What question?"

"My brothers wrote that a man was captured while snooping in my rooms in the Red Keep."

He raises an eyebrow. "That's not a question."

"Syrio said there were five kidnapping attempts on me in the past year before I came here."

"Still not a question."

Rhae scowls. "What is happening in King's Landing? No one is telling me anything. Instead they ship me off to The North."

Geralt sighs. "That is a difficult question, Highness."

"It's a question I need answered, Ser Geralt," Rhae snaps. "I might be in The North but I am still the Princess of the Seven Kingdoms. I cannot be kept ignorant for fear of my so-called delicate sensibilities."

Geralt's mouth twitches. "Alright, you want the truth, Highness, and I'll give it to you: the small folk are hungry and they see the highborns and how much you have."

"But...but that's not my fault."

"No," he agrees, "it's not. But it's not the smallfolk's fault they were born small, either."

Rhae crosses to the empty chair near the fireplace and sits, feeling lost. She looks at Geralt with purple eyes. "What am I supposed to do?"

He laughs harshly. "Fuck if I know."

"No suggestions at all?"

"I can give you the obvious: don't trust the Baratheons and don't trust the Old Lion."

Rhae tilts her head, frowning. "The Old Lion? Do you mean Lord Tywin?"

"Yeah, that fucker. Someone’s been stirring up the smallfolk. My bet is him. He's probably the one who paid for the kidnappings."

"But _why?_ " Frustration bubbles in Rhae's chest. She doesn't understand. Ser Jaime serves as second to Ser Barristan in the Kingsguard. Lord Tyrion is one of her Wolf-Mother's favorites at court. Why would Lord Tywin Lannister be scheming against her family?

"Because Tywin Lannister is a mean old fucker who thinks himself a kingmaker. Your mother's have Aegon and Jaehaerys so well protected the Old Lion can't get to them and he hates it."

"But why try and take me?" Rhae asks, confused beyond measure. "I am not in line for the throne unless both my brothers die. Even then I would not bend to Lord Tywin's will."

Geralt snorts a laugh. "Aye, you wouldn't. The mangy codpiece doesn't know you. I think he wants to betroth you to either of his sons so that when your brothers are killed in, say, a hunting accident…"

Fear sinks her heart like a stone. She sits in Geralt's room, hands suddenly trembling. "Do my mothers know?"

"You are here in The North, far from the influences of court," Geralt answers. "You are with those Princess Lyanna trusts most, who will raise you well without attempting to gain your favor."

"They sent me away to keep me out of the clutches of Lord Tywin." Rhae bites her lip. "You also said not to trust the Baratheons?"

Geralt sighs. "Fucking Stags, always think Targaryen blood makes them entitled to everything."

"You have Targaryen blood," Rhae points out.

"Ha! Targaryen blood." Geralt stands and goes to the other side of the bed, pulling a bottle of wine from the nightstand. He pops the cork and takes a deep swig, turning to face her. "Let me tell you about Targaryen blood, Princess. Our ancestors were conquerors. All this bullshit about Great Houses when, really, all they did was see something they liked and took it for themselves. Fucking glory of your name. Absolute horse shit. More like children stealing from each other.” He shakes his head, face twisting in a derisive sneer. “Nothing but a bunch of screaming children."

Rhaenys swallows Geralt's words, storing them in her mind for later. "If we are children," she says quietly, "how can we grow up?"

Geralt huffs, taking another drink of his wine. "Giving a damn about other people would be a start."

Outside a bell tolls. Geralt looks around. The sun is long gone from the horizon, silver stars sparkling in the sky.

"You'd best get going, Princess," Geralt says, going to the door.

Rhae rises. "Ser Geralt…"

He levels dark eyes at her, almost baleful. "Princess."

"Ser Geralt, I have another favor to ask." Rhae takes a deep breath, meeting his gaze squarely. Her hands fold delicately before her. "You are returning to the capital tomorrow?"

He eyes her warily. "Aye."

"And then intend to return to Winterfell for Yule?"

"Jaskier has been invited to play for the Lord and Lady."

"Will you listen to what people are saying? Will you tell me what you discover?"

Geralt sighs. "To what end, Princess?"

Rhae straightens under his gaze, lifting her chin high. "If I am to protect my family I must learn what I can. Please Geralt. I trust your judgement."

Geralt sighs again but nods. "Alright. I will ask and listen."

Rhae beams. "Thank you."

He bows, borderline mocking, and opens the door. Rhae lets him usher her from his room. As he begins to close the door behind her, she stops and turns to him.

"Thank you, Geralt. Your loyalty will not be forgotten."

Geralt snorts. "Put it on my tab."

"Don't worry," Rhae laughs, "I will."

She leaves him to return to her room. As she prepares for bed she mulls over what Geralt told her. _To care about the smallfolk is the best defense against dissent._

Rhae is only fourteen but she must begin to consider the consequences of the adult world. "A charity," she mumbles, pulling back the bedspread. A yawn almost splits her jaw and she settles back against the pillows. "Something to do with...with food…"

Her eyes flutter closed and her breathing deepens, dreams taking her.


End file.
